A moment, be it all a brief one
by Titanic-fanatic
Summary: It came as a surprise; how gently the fabric had teased itself from his grasp, caressing his skin and then, in a flourish to be gone. The parallel of the fold of cotton to Irene Adler's manner was insurmountable in that instant.Game of Shadows on the boat, Sherlock and his moment of clarity/grief thinking of her. FIRST SHERLOCK FIC, REVIEW AND I WILL LOVE YOU!


A moment, be it all a brief one

He looked out to the water, allowing the salt in the air to settle on his skin. The spray was refreshing, at best. It was clearing his head; dispersing the muddy water and allowing him to see clearly for the first time in years it seemed.

Sherlock knew this clarity would be brief and fleeting, he had a case to solve. Ergo a plethora of questions that needed answering not to mention aforementioned details that would need to be recounted and considered.

However, for now, at least, he would attempt to let himself wallow in this lucidity of the mind and permit himself to fully experience his emotions at present.

'_She was too bloody proud' _he pondered severely, staring outward. He'd thought it rashly and impatiently, it only taking seconds for the annoyance and rage to subside. It was a bluster of an impulse.

Sherlock could never stay mad at that woman. It seemed even now things had not changed between them. This balance would always remain; she would do and he would compensate for her actions.

He attempted to delve further into his mind.

At this something rooted deeper within charged through him; Sherlock couldn't help the slight convulsion of his chest. He let the involuntary action pass; it had completely taken all the ire out of him. Stripped bare it left him exposed in the dark, stumbling. Was this true sorrow? Regret? Guilt? Remorse? Or was it something much worse; an amalgamation of it all.

His own tremble of an exhale seemed to affirm this.

'_Couldn't she trust me to take care of her?'_ Sherlock questioned himself. He'd never considered himself the valiant hero to rescue the maiden in said hypothetical castle. No. He was just _protective_ of her.

She was… he attempted to recall her face and the touch of her lips of his but his own musings interrupted him.

This was of her own making and yet there was no point in blaming her. It was _he_ who was at fault. He should have adopted the role of her protector more actively; taken her with him after that affair on London Bridge and kept her by his side – or at least endeavored to. Then Moriarty couldn't have.

An upheaval of circumstance stifled his thoughts, lodging in his throat.

Needless to say the opportunity for him to harm her would never have arisen and he could have been there for her.

Sherlock suddenly became aware of the chatter in the distance, the footsteps on the wooden deck and the rustling of Watson's paper in the breeze. Reality was ebbing in and he was not done. He'd hardly even begun to think of her, like a child he'd been brooding over a lost his prized marble to the gutter. He was blaming the world and the marble itself for its complete disregard for its own well being and yet it was he had the opportunity of steering it's fate elsewhere. Anywhere.

He closed his eyes, detaching himself from his body and allowing it to lull with the boat. He could picture her smile richly now. Her porcelain skin and luminous eyes sparkling at him with such splendor he considered how he'd not been rendered speechless more often when staring into the depths of them. Her lips were painted but not in a fashion as to detract from her beauty. They were a mere component of the coy and yet promiscuous smile he'd grown so fond of. It usually masked some form of scheme at which he had no hope of fully unfurling. Sherlock didn't admit it but he enjoyed being made to jump through loops by _her. _It seemed losing at her games granted him a win much larger than he stood to gain by completely draining all the mystery from his mischievous woman.

She had challenged him, even run circles around him and it had all amounted to him acting like some love struck youth in resolute denial that he yearned for her company.

Her voice and confidence that only an American could carry with such grace echoed in his ear. It was as though she was leaning over his shoulder now, speaking words only he was privy to hear with real meaning behind them. The heat of her presence took over the darkness and isolation, he was clothed in her essence and he was standing in the wake of her most inimitable light.

Sherlock knew at this moment it was the wind touching his face and his mind tricking him into believing it to be her tender touch.

Just this once he'd let himself become absorbed.

Sherlock brought her handkerchief to his nose, the cotton caressing his skin in the most mesmerizing of manners. The scent of her Parisian perfume was almost enough to transport him back to long gone encounters and cryptic conversations.

_Almost_.

There was no going back now. Not ever.

There was no time to linger on unsaid words or vows, save for the reprieve in his reverie.

Sherlock would never admit it to Watson but he would have had Irene as his companion. No, more than a companion. Wife? No. The notion of being eternally tied to someone was too dire and distressing. Then again, being tethered to someone who within seconds would become undone and have you bound in your own confusion as to how you ever got so lucky to have her attention and affection wouldn't have been at all bad. It would have been pleasant, more than pleasant in truth.

She never failed to surprise him, nor convey any intention of being bound to a single place, time or person. Equally, neither did he.

It would have been as easy as breathing.

The smell became quickly bitter on his tongue and his wetted eyes flashed open.

Her blood.

Grief sullied his aching heart and body again; his hand clenched. Sherlock felt as though his entire body had suffered some form of paralysis.

And that was when the handkerchief was lost to the West-ward wind. It came as a surprise; how gently the fabric had teased itself from his grasp, caressing his skin and then, in a flourish to be gone.

The parallel of the fold of cotton to Irene Adler's manner was insurmountable in that instant.

Sherlock could only appreciate how poetically just its disappearance was for a moment before his mind unwillingly returned to the predicament at hand.


End file.
